


I Regret Nothing

by somewhereelse



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 07:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11823810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhereelse/pseuds/somewhereelse
Summary: Season 2 Missing Scene/AU. Drunk!Oliver is sassy. Sober!Felicity is over it.





	I Regret Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine Oliver's alcohol tolerance actually being pretty shitty after the island and seeming self-imposed abstinence. 
> 
> Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon Week 12 prompt: Impaired Judgment.

“I regret _nothing_!” Oliver sneers at the mortified group of women staring at them from the entrance to Verdant.

Felicity rolls her eyes as she yanks Oliver back against her side, almost upsetting both of their balances when he acquiesces much more easily than she expected. “Sorry, not sorry!” she adds over her shoulder, causing Oliver to chortle and wrap an arm around her shoulders. He holds her against his hard, hard body so they’re walking in sync again, legs moving together despite the height difference.

* * *

This was all Roy’s fault—and a little Sara. Only an hour ago, the younger man bet that he could drink his vigilante boss under the table. Oliver had, predictably, brushed him off until Sara got in the game, goading him along until someone produced a bottle of something from somewhere. After an embarrassing loss, Roy did the responsible thing and passed out on the cot. Thea muttered under her breath and threw a blanket over her boyfriend before retreating to check on the club upstairs. Sara had left to check in with Sin while Dig was absent for date night with Lyla. So she was left to wrestle the adorably tipsy— _but dangerous, I’m always dangerous, F’lissy_ —vigilante into some semblance of order.

Her hopes that he would pull a Roy and crash in a corner were dashed when Oliver, without any regard to the psychological effects of alcohol as a downer, sprinted up the stairs with a shouted declaration of... _going dancing_? Except her quick thinking and quicker fingers locked down the door before the reformed CEO could make his debut.

He crashed into the ironclad door with a dull thud and sunk to the floor in a pouting heap while lamenting her fun-sucking tendencies. Her eyes widened when he muttered, “Not how I want you to reboot my system.” A sharp spin put him out of sight—but not out of mind—and Felicity packed up her things, praying he’d pass out in the next five minutes.

Her prayers weren’t answered.

Oliver wound his arms around her, pinning her arms against her side and lifting her with ease even as the top of her right knee banged into the underside of her desk and her purse spilled onto the ground. “Hey! Ouch!” Her yelp produced an apology, but he continued to hold her against his chest with her feet dangling clear off the ground.

“Oliver, put me down.” Despite the command in her voice, he squeezed her tighter. “This is really why I need self-defense lessons.” In response to her dry complaint, Oliver snuffled against the side of her neck, and she squirmed from the ticklish feeling. “What is even the point of this?”

“Testing.” Oliver hummed a little as he jostled her up and down as if testing his grip. “Wanna see how long I can hold you up. For _science_.” Her eyes bugged out, and Felicity swatted at his locked forearms. Ineffectively. Because her arms were still pinned to her side.

“Nope, nope. Down! Hard no.” Registering the seriousness of her complaint, Oliver lowered her to solid ground. He caught her elbows to turn her, and she rolled her eyes at his exaggerated pout. “Yeah, you’re drunk, and this is not something I want to have to explain when you’re sober. So, no, no drunken innuendos giving me... ideas.”

“Spoilsport,” Oliver complained. “You’re leaving?” Felicity rolled her eyes as he went from pouting to despondent. “I’m coming with you.” His declaration was bright and eager. At this rate, she was going to develop whiplash from his abrupt attitude adjustments.

“Okay,” she finally agreed after collecting the contents of her purse off the ground while he swayed in place. Felicity had the sinking suspicion the only reason he had been still and quiet was because he’d been staring at her ass the entire time. “Not sure how I feel about you in my car in your current state, but let’s go, buddy.”

“I ain’t your _buddy_ ,” he returned grumpily but still followed her up the stairs. She refused to walk behind him because she was not about to serve as his crash landing pad if he tumbled backwards. Thankfully, they made it to the ground level without incident, but she regretted her choice of exit when she opened the door to a wall of pounding music.

“Let’s just get to the door.” She loosely wrapped her fingers around his wrist, suddenly understanding why certain mothers put actual leashes on their children when Oliver tugged her harshly, ripping his hand away from her. Felicity turned back to him in exasperation. “What?” she shouted over the music before releasing her grip. He could all but manhandle her downstairs, but she couldn’t sort of hold his hand to not get separated up here?

Oh.

Oliver was _glowering_. Like full on Arrow glowering if anyone could see his expression under his hood. But it wasn’t directed at her. Instead, he firmly pushed through the group of women dressed for a night in a club (unlike herself) and who thought they’d made the ultimate score in Verdant’s elusive owner. Oliver turned her to face the door and just about wrapped himself around her, legs bracketing hers, hips lined up behind her, arms wrapped around her shoulders. For a second, she thought he was just going to pick her up again and walk her out of there. Then, his right knee nudged her right leg forward, and she progressed a hesitant step forward which he instantly matched.

It was honestly the weirdest experience she’d had with Oliver to date. And she tried not to focus on how good it felt in his full-bodied embrace—only a couple times one of his arms left its place to swat away roaming hands—because this was purely practical? No. Oliver was an expert strategist. The practical thing would have been to turn around and use the basement entrance. This bastardization of a three-legged race was because he was drunk and not thinking clearly. An even better reason to ignore the unusual touchiness.

They almost made it to the door when they were confronted with that initial group. Felicity had no idea how they even caught up to them, since Oliver’s unique methods had at least been efficient in parting the crowd with its weirdness. As they started fawning, trying to entice him back inside, Felicity felt Oliver lower his arms to wrap around her waist and once again found herself hoisted into mid-air, feet dangling off the floor.

“Sorry, ladies,” his voice was muffled against her shoulder, but they must have heard him because a few of them pouted, “we’ve got places to be.”

Then he took a few steps forward, pace quickening, and Felicity realized that he intended to use her as a battering ram. Thankfully, before she actually made contact, the women scattered out of the way, and she and Oliver spilled onto the sidewalk, past the bouncers and the line of people waiting for entry who all stared at them like the crazy people they were. After he set her down, the women congregated back in the entrance, complaining about how he could have hurt them, which was when Oliver spat that wonderful line about his lack of regrets.

* * *

“You’re crazy, you know that?” Felicity rhetorically questions as she shrugs off his arm to dig her car keys out of her purse. “I mean, I knew it before, but this really takes the cake. I can see why the tabloids had a bull market when you were a drunk mess.”

Oliver just shrugs, meeting her eyes over the roof of the car. “Crazy about you.”

Rolling her eyes—because what else is she supposed to do with that?—she yanks on the door handle impatiently. “Just get in the car. You can sleep it off on my couch.” She doesn’t need to be looking at him to know he’s pouting, so she focuses on finding the lever to move the passenger seat back as far as it can go.

There’s a grumbled _ow_ when he bangs his head on the roof, and she stifles a grin because he deserves it after all the manhandling of her person he’s done tonight. Oliver folds himself into the seat a lot more gracefully than she expected, and soon they’re on their way. The drive is quieter than she expects, and she looks over to find Oliver starting to nod off. Cranking the radio up a bit, she can only hope he doesn’t fall asleep on the drive, or else she’s leaving him in her car the entire night.

“Hey, let’s go, buddy.” Felicity prods his shoulder while his eyelids droop closer to shut. “We’re home. My home, I mean. Not ours. Just get out of the car.”

“Still not your buddy,” Oliver grumbles, fumbling for the door handle. Felicity rolls her eyes in a silent prayer and rounds the car quickly to help him. By the time she reaches the other side, he’s managed to open the door but is struggling to bend his knees far enough to maneuver his feet onto the ground.

Felicity wordlessly watches the mundane struggle—the Arrow bested by a compact car—until he pours himself onto the asphalt. To her relief, Oliver navigates himself upright and follows her inside without a rude awakening for her unsuspecting neighbors. “Couch,” she directs, steering him to sit with a firm hand. After he kicks off his shoes, Felicity holds up a hand to stop his disrobing there. “No pulling a Naked Man while I’m getting you a blanket.”

“Naked man?” Oliver frowns adorably in confusion. Right, he doesn’t get the reference, because either he’s too drunk or it happened during the island years. Probably the latter since that move would have been right up Ollie’s alley. Suddenly, he perks up, and his hands move to the hem of his sweater. Felicity, before she even registers the movement, clears the coffee table in one leap and all but lands in his lap to stop him.

“No! I said _no_ Naked Man. Clothes stay on.”

“Okay, no naked man.” His agreeableness makes her wary. “Naked Felicity will be much more fun.”

Rightfully wary, it turns out.

She squeaks and tumbles out of his lap before his hands get any higher on her thighs. “What has gotten into you?!” Without looking back, Felicity goes for the hall closet where she keeps her stash of throw blankets. Now that’s a good idea. She’s just going to chuck one across the room then flee for her bedroom like she’s thrown a live grenade.

To both their surprises, she sees Oliver take a face full of fleece blanket before her door slams shut behind her. After running through her bedtime routine, Felicity figures she ought to at least check that Oliver hasn’t choked on his own vomit or met some other untimely end. She quietly walks into the living room in case he’s already asleep and finds the man sitting up and using her blanket for a cape. At least his clothes are still on.

“ _Felicity_ ,” comes the drawn out whine. “I need a cuddle buddy.”

“You have to be kidding me.” She blinks blankly at him, at the offered arm extending out the blanket like a bat wing. “Did you actually have game back then or did you just exasperate girls until they got into your bed?”

“This is your _couch_ ,” Oliver returns seriously, so seriously she wonders if he’s been faking his inebriation, “We’d have way more fun if this were a bed. And if you were naked Felicity. But you said no. So now you have to be my cuddle buddy.”

With a final sigh of resignation, Felicity rounds the couch to settle next to him. Her attempts at maintaining space are demolished by the arm he wraps around her to pull her against his side. “I’m only staying till you fall asleep.” Oliver hums in acknowledgement then lists sideways until his head is resting on the armrest and hers is on his chest. Over his heart, to be exact.

It must the domesticity of the moment, the steady warmth of his heartbeat under her ear, that loosens her tongue. Because there’s no other way she would unleash this type of sentimental drivel at a man who thinks a shoulder pat or nod is the equivalent of “thank you so much for saving my life tonight and every night.”

“I’m glad you’re Oliver.” The thought is so strange that she prays he’s somehow fallen asleep in the last minute and hasn’t heard her.

“Who else would I be?” he scoffs at her. “I thought I was the drunk, nonsensical one.”

“No. That’s not what I mean.” Felicity pushes herself off his chest to look down at him. Oh, that’s not a good position either. Well, it _could_ be a good position, just not for this. She struggles to her feet, not wanting eye contact if she’s going to explain herself, even if he’s hopefully too drunk to remember. “Seeing you like this tonight. Sometimes I forget you were like a different person before the island. I _know_ you were. I’ve seen the photos and videos. But that version of you isn’t... he’s not real to me, you know? At least, not before tonight. It was fun seeing you footloose and fancy free. You deserve to blow off some steam. But at the end of the day? I’m glad you’re _Oliver_.”

A deep breath after her word vomit, Felicity looks over at him and finds Oliver with a dopey grin. “I’m glad I’m your Oliver, too.” His words are slurred and his eyes are sliding shut, but in the exhausted way and not in the drunk way. Finally.

“Ooh, yeah. Definitely still drunk and nonsensical.” She’s quick to laugh it off, backpedaling to her room while he’s still frowning, processing her words. “Good night, Oliver. Sleep on your side.”

* * *

She wakes up feeling a bone-deep tired that’s different from the usual exhaustion of working two jobs. Luckily, it’s Saturday which means she has a full ten hours to recoup before the night shift begins. She freezes in her languid stretch when she spots her closed bedroom door.

That’s odd.

Normally, she leaves the door open because the thought of someone breaking into her living room and her not hearing it creeps her out. The only times she closes the door is when she has... overnight guests.

Oh.

Oh _no_.

A sense of dread fills her stomach. Wait. Dread is too strong of a word, but she definitely isn’t looking forward to meeting hungover Oliver for the first time. The door barely creaks as she eases it open, tiptoeing into the hallway to peek at the couch. This time, her wariness is unfounded. All’s quiet on the western front. Vacated, in fact.

Felicity breathes a sigh of relief then feels guilty for doing so. Last night had been the rare occasion where Oliver felt comfortable enough to let his guard down. She just wishes it hadn’t come at the expense of her frayed nerves. Like her pliable heart really needed to experience the flirtatious, touchy side of that man, the side that had supposedly died a painful death on Lian Yu.

The blanket from last night is neatly folded and draped over an armrest. The pillows are fluffed and in place. The knickknacks on the coffee table that had been scattered during his settling down are reorganized. A bittersweet smile touches her lips as she realizes that Oliver has essentially erased all evidence of his presence in her home, which is probably for the best for the sake of their friendship.

She’s shuffling over to the coffeemaker when she sees it out of the corner of her eye. A yellow sticky note underneath the peephole of her front door. Without her glasses, she squints to make out Oliver’s blocky handwriting.

_I regret nothing._


End file.
